Understandings
by orchidcactus
Summary: Aeryn and angst. It's all familiar and she doesn't understand.


A/N (2011): Getting near the end of uploading the 'old' stuff, with a few bits of fluff left. If you've read and liked, feel free to drop me a note; I haven't bitten anyone in years.

Rating: M for violence and sex.

Beta: Many thanks to the BBQ. All mistakes are my own. 

**Understandings**

He is a soldier. She understands this. They're using the thin blades today, and that is easy to grasp as well.

They exchange no words, none are necessary. Economy of motion, focus only on each other. The ship would be dead but for the tremble of engines; movement noted, filed. No sound except for their breathing, rapid in the cold air.

She watches his eyes, the upturned blade in his hand. He tenses, strikes out; fluid play of muscle and tendon and steel.

The move is a feint. The widening of irises and the shift of air around his form, and she knows where the blade will arc. The steps are choreographed and her steel flashes in the low light, catching cloth. His fist buries in her side, force enough to crack ribs. She stumbles and his hand with the blade swings, but it is his knuckles that connect with her cheekbone. Her knife flies from her fingers, makes the silent room ring as the metal clatters against the wall.

She falls to the practice mat, breathing hard. Short gasps that send pain along damaged bone.

He watches her, blade ready, swaying slightly as he tries to breath. One of her blows broke something inside him, slowing his reactions.

She puts a hand to her side, it comes away dry. No blood.

He sees this and springs at her, uncoiling. She had expected him to slash up; he goes for her throat. She catches his wrist, slowing his attack, but he overpowers her, weight crushing her back on the mat. He shifts, knee grinding into her thigh, and she twists under him, driving stiff fingers into ribs that have been injured and repaired so many times.

His mistake is giving in to the pain; he lifts up as her fingers seek the fresh break. She hits him again and when he flinches, she pulls a smaller dagger from her waistband.

His breathing turns ragged, foamy, hot. She's done something worse than fracture a rib.

He makes a soft noise, rolling from her, sitting up with a puzzled look. The shaft of the dagger protrudes from his side and his hand comes away wet and red when he touches it. Before he loses consciousness he gives her a grim smile.

The medic is unhappy. He scowls at both of his patients as he finishes sealing the hole the dagger left.

"There are regulations for good reason. This happens again, I report you both," he finally says, tossing the instrument on the counter, marching from the room. The door hisses behind him, and the room is quiet.

"He left it to scar," she says critically. Her fingers twine in black hair, refastening the end of the tight braid. The table is cold and uncomfortable under her, and she wants to shower and sleep. Her ribs will mend rapidly, but they're still tender. Not as bad as the damage she has given, this time.

"Nothing new, there," he shrugs. Scars trace lines of battle over his skin; hers another skirmish in an endless fight.

She doesn't answer, only hops from the table, grabbing her shirt. Pulling the material over the bruises hurts, but she won't leave the room while out of uniform. When she palms the door control, he stops her with a question.

She pauses, considering, then nods.

She puts her hand against the sequencer, DNA triggering the lock. Her quarters, dark and cold.

"Illumination, half," she says, peeling the shirt off, careful of her bruised side. The panels glow weakly, casting fixed demons. The black metal walls give no warmth and the air is sharp against her skin. She understands economy of resources.

She pulls the dagger from her waistband, noticing blood in the grip, tossing it on the bunk to clean later. She crosses the room slowly, turning the shower on, letting the water warm as she finishes undressing, unbraiding her hair.

The mirror shows where his fists connected. She touches her face, feeling the bruise beneath her eye. The medic treated it, but there is still swelling. She watches her reflection trace the bruise on her side, gently probing. She ignores the discomfort her own fingers bring; she needs to know the extent of the damage, the progress the healing injections were making.

The fractures will heal without complication; there'd be no scars this time. It's rare that he makes a mistake, rarer still that she comes away from an exercise without injury.

She lets her hand drop from the bruise, looking up again. Her own expression disconcerts her, a heartbeat of confusion. The extent of damage in her eyes is something she does not understand, and she clutches the basin in front of her.

Then air scrubbers kick on, and her skin tightens under the draft of cold air from the vents.

She hears the door to the corridor open, but only files the sound, stepping into the water. The warmth washes over her stomach, between her legs, tracing the older scar that runs inside her thigh, soothing the bruise his knee left behind.

Another sound, outside the shower. She ducks her head under the water, letting the warmth soak her long hair, run into open eyes, spill over her chest. Her nipples tighten, harden. She isn't surprised when he steps in.

He lets the water wet his hair, wiping his eyes when they fill. He winces when the pelt of water stings the wound, and gives her a thoughtful look.

"You got it past the scanners." An admission of admiration; she was a resourceful soldier.

"Yes," she shrugs, pleased.

He reaches for her, fingers gripping the back of her neck, tangling in wet hair. She puts a hand on his hip, nails on skin and muscle, pulling him close. His mouth is on hers, lips parting in demand.

She presses back, harder, teeth meeting his. The muscles of his hip twitch under her hand and he misses a breath as she tilts her hips in. He's hard against her stomach, and she slides a hand between them, letting her nails scratch. He makes a noise against her mouth as she grips his erection, tightening and sliding in measured rhythm.

His hand slides down her side, hard on the bruise, and she breaks from warmth of his mouth, releasing him. Before she can strike out, his hand moves between her legs. She lets her head tilt back, water coursing over closed lids as calloused fingers slide over slick folds. She fights the soft moan when he forces a rough finger in, her muscles tightening when he starts a slow rhythm.

"Frell," she gasps, shoving him back, foot hooking around his calf. He stumbles, and she follows him down.

He catches her arms as if he anticipated the move, and when they land he jerks her close, breathing hot in her ear. One hand tangles in her hair again, the other on her hip, digging in.

She reaches between them again, circling him. He lets go of her then, letting her take him. She pushes down, letting him slide in. She leans back, spine arching as she grasps his thighs. He almost cries out when she starts to move. He waits until the pressure is too much, then grabs her biceps, pulling her down against him, slamming his hips up.

Fluid, brutal motion of muscle and tendon. Soldiers, both

Her body tightens above him, muscles clenching, teeth burying in his shoulder. He grips her sides, not caring that his grip damages her injury because her release is too much for him. He explodes in her, and this time he does let the sound out.

Her breathing slows, ragged steps down. She pushes up, standing with lithe grace. The warm of his body is on her stomach and chest, warmth running down the inside of her leg.

He doesn't watch her move back into the stream of water, but begins to dress.

When she steps out, he's gone. His Command watch starts soon. She grabs a cloth from the rack, drying herself. The image in the mirror catches her attention, and she stops, confused again.

She's a soldier, she can deal with pain, tolerate scars, but this she doesn't understand.

**END**

So, what about Setting? Before the Premiere. Some time after DWTB. Take your pick.


End file.
